The dying lay
rustling like withered flesh
life pulsing out
under the cold sun
as they dry
their veins stretch through their skin
their spines arch
into a ball
where they roll under foot
and crunch
smaller and smaller
until they are only dust
then dirt
then life.
The year of the poem is finished, now it is the year for the protocol! Read about the misadventures of a plant scientist trying to make sense of photorespiration one mutant at a time.
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